


Should've Let Me Go

by HazelDomain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Biting, Bloodplay, Choking, Demon Dean, Does this fandom even need that tag anymore, Dominant Bottom, Forced Orgasm, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No longer that fic that promises non-con and doesn't deliver, Not A Happy Ending, Of course there's Hurt/Comfort, Prisoner Castiel, Sam wants to talk about feelings, Submissive Castiel, Top Castiel, Violated but not enjoying it, Whipping, control play, deanmon, not in that order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-17 18:53:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5881783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazelDomain/pseuds/HazelDomain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean doesn't want to kill his brother, or his angel. But he doesn't want them chasing him around the rest of his life, either. A demon's gotta do what a demon's gotta do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic doesn't get dark. It starts dark and gets darker.  
> If you get to a point in this fic where you throw your hands in the air and exclaim "I can't do this anymore" I'd really appreciate knowing where that point is. I want this to be good more than I want not to be criticized.

Even with the blade pressed against his throat, Dean wasn’t concerned. His brother was, and always had been, an open book. What he saw on Sam’s face now was terror, not because of Dean, but for him. Sammy would turn the knife on himself before drawing a drop of his elder brother’s blood, and Dean damn well knew it. He had a suspicion that little bro would do a _lot_ of things before he got that desperate, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to proving it.  

And, right on cue, Sam’s face fell into a mask of tired resignation and the hand holding the demon blade dropped to his side. Dean smirked, satisfied, already planning the ways that Sam was going to pay for his little Florence Nightingale act.

And then Sam’s eyes flicked over his shoulder, and Dean felt arms closing around him, solid, with a heat that sank into his skin and turned his arms into weights.  

“It’s over, Dean,” Castiel said into his ear, and the grace was paralyzing him, burning against the demonic power inside him. He tried to thrash and barely succeeded in twitching one hand. His skin was on fire, he knew if he looked down he’d see it blistering and tearing as the grace tore him apart from the inside.

“It’s over,” Castiel said again, and all Dean could think was “ _I’ve been here before.”_

And then he threw his head back into the angel’s face, and Castiel’s next words were lost in a pained grunt and the sound of something crunching. His grip loosened incrementally and Dean let himself fall, free from the burning embrace. Castiel tried to grab for him again, only to catch an elbow in the ribs for his trouble. He stumbled for balance, and that’s all the time Dean needed to round on him and land another fist into his side. Something cracked.  

Sam watched in horror as Castiel crumpled, falling to his knees with only Dean’s fists on his lapels to keep him from hitting the ground.

“Dean-!” he started, but it was too late. Dean slammed the smaller man back into the wall, and there was a sickening _crack_ as the back of his head made contact with the tile. Castiel slumped again, and this time Dean made no attempt to catch him. He crumpled to the floor in a boneless heap. Sam could see something wet in his hair, and the pale grey wall was smeared with a gash of bright crimson.

Dean turned his attention to Sam with a grin that gave no indication that he’d just beaten his best friend unconscious.  

“So, Sammy. Where were we?”

 

 

Castiel awoke to darkness and the disturbing feeling that his arms were missing. His biceps burned and cramped just below the shoulder as grace attempted to fill the shape it remembered being. The mutilation of his vessel bothered him only slightly; he was used to Jimmy’s form, fond of it even, but he was by no means permanently incapacitated.

He wasn’t looking forward to taking another vessel. Jimmy Novak had been a good man, honest and loyal. He’d been willing to give everything for what he believed to be a higher cause, and as a reward, he’d been killed and his family torn apart. Castiel had hoped that this vessel would see him through the end of the battle, but it wasn’t to be.

He gathered his grace inwards, drawing himself into the silvery stream that was his form on this plane. Saying a last thank you to the vessel that had carried him, he slipped up Jimmy’s throat and abruptly found his way blocked.

 

Dean sat at the table across from Castiel, his chin resting on his interlaced hands, waiting for his friend to regain consciousness. He had an idea of how that particular sequence would play out, and he was delighted when Cas’s low moan was quickly followed by the telltale glow that signified that the angel was trying to evacuate the vessel. Just as Dean had hoped, the glowing tendrils of grace were unable to make their way out, not with the sigils marked on the tape over his mouth. Dean settled back in his chair, content to let Cas figure the rest of his predicament out on his own. He’d appreciate Dean’s solution more if he were intimately familiar with the alternative.  

 

Castiel settled back into the vessel, wincing as the cramps and pain blossomed in his shoulders once again. The grace shouldn’t be trying so hard to fill limbs that weren’t there. He prodded at the area more carefully. To his surprise, he found that he could feel his hands. The feeling was distant, and muted, but definitely there. They felt the way they had felt when he was human. The rest of his vessel was being possessed properly, each individual cell monitored and tended to, each muscle fiber individually stimulated to create a reasonable facsimile of human movement, but when he experimentally wiggled his fingers, they just _moved._

His arms weren’t missing, they weren’t numb, they weren’t paralyzed, but his grace wouldn’t possess them.

He started at the ground, taking an inventory of the rest of his systems. His toes wiggled and his feet moved, but their movement was restricted. From the range of motion, he assumed they were shackled to the legs of the chair he was currently sitting in. His rib had been broken in the earlier skirmish, but that had healed while he was unconscious. The rest of his abdomen and chest were unharmed, but there were bindings around his chest, keeping him upright in the chair. His arms were outstretched, lying palm-down on a table in front of him. Aside from his inability to possess them fully, they seemed unharmed as well. He tapped each finger against the cold surface. All ten were mobile and responsive.

He tipped his head to the side, finding no restraints there. His mouth was stuffed with a wad of something dry, held in by strips of what felt like tape. It kept him from speaking, but it shouldn’t have been enough to keep him trapped inside the vessel. He wrinkled his nose, and felt dried blood from where Dean had broken it earlier. His grace had healed it, but left the mess. He tried to finish the job now, and frowned when the flaky residue refused to vanish. The frown brought another sensation, one he hadn’t thought to check for. Something dark covered his eyes, blocking out the light. He shook his head, trying to dislodge it, but it held fast.  

“Welcome back, buddy!”

Castiel froze.    

 

 

Dean couldn’t help but grin at the angel’s attempt to shake the blindfold free.  

“You and Sam, man. What part of ‘don’t look for me’ was giving you trouble? I get in a couple barfights and collect on a few crossroad deals and all of a sudden I’m grounded? Come on.”

Cas mumbled something he couldn’t begin to make out. Probably “you don’t need to do this” or “I can help you” or another dose of the touchy-feely shit he’d been getting from Sam for the last three days. Dean chose to ignore it.

“So look, I’ve had some time to reflect on this morning’s activities. Yes, I did try to kill Sam with a hammer and yes, I did break two of your ribs. Mistakes were made all around. To be fair, I _did_ warn you not to come after me. It’s not you, it’s me. You’re alright guys, really, I just don’t want you, you know, _around._ “ His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m a knight of hell, I can’t exactly have an angel on my shoulder, you know? It’s bad for my reputation.”  

Cas mumbled again, probably something like “Why would an angel sit on your shoulder?” Dean carried on.  

“Believe it or not, I actually predicted an eventual visit from the Clarence-and-Gigantor duo, so you know what I did? I did a little research. Turns out demons know a thing or two about angels. Specifically, things about how to bind them. And as it turns out, they’ll happily _tell_ you those things when faced with explosive dismemberment.”

Dean paused to grin. Good memories. Cas had stopped mumbling and was now sitting abnormally still, even for him.

“How’re your shoulders, Cas?”  

 

 

Castiel wracked his mind for details on the binding sigils. Anything Dean might be missing, anything he might be able to do to interfere. He’s heard stories of angels being bound to human vessels, but he’d never seen it done. It can’t be happening to him. This isn’t a thing that happens. He’s sure of it.

“I’m gonna do your hands first. Keep all that mojo inside you where it belongs.”

Dean’s hand settled over his wrist, holding it down onto the table, and Castiel panicked, trying to jerk away from the touch. A chain rattled and metal bit into his skin, arresting his movement after only a few inches.

“You gotta hold still for this, man. These sigils are really specific and if I mess up I’ll have to start over somewhere else. After this I’ll take the shackles off and your shoulders will feel better, okay?”

Castiel can’t do anything but moan as the first bolt of pain blossoms from his hand. Dean’s using something sharp, thank god for small mercies. He’s not sure he could hold still if the tool was blunt. This isn’t like the last sigil he’d carved; for that one he had had the benefit of his grace and the ability to simply turn the sensations off. But this, this was coming though as though the skin was his own. He shuddered.

 

 

“There, not so bad, right? One more and then I’ll take the shackles off.”

Blood was running off the back of Cas’s hand in tiny rivulets, puddling on the table. It was hard working through the welling blood, but Dean was satisfied that the sigil had been done right. He pressed a wad of gauze against the wound, wrapping it in an ace bandage that almost immediately soaked through. Whatever. It’s not like he and Sammy didn’t have a metric shit-ton of this stuff stockpiled.

He soaked another wad of gauze in rubbing alcohol and swiped it across the back of Cas’s other hand, rolling his eyes when the angel flinched from the touch.

“Don’t be a pussy, man. You’ve been disintegrated by an archangel, I think you can handle a little round of minor body modification.”  

Cas mumbled something probably along the lines of “let’s talk about this,” but Dean ignored him in favor of dousing an x-acto in alcohol and starting in on the second sigil.

 

The table was sticky under his hands, and Castiel tried to remember how much blood it was acceptable for a human vessel to lose. He’d seen Sam and Dean lose quite a bit before, but they usually ended up in the ER afterwards, and Castiel didn’t see himself ending up there tonight. He wondered what the symptoms of blood loss were, and wished he’d paid more attention when he was human. His heart and lungs both seemed to be functioning properly, so he probably hadn’t yet lost enough to cause any problems.

“You still with me, Cas?”

Castiel moaned. The pain in his shoulders warred for attention with the pain in his hands. More than anything, he hoped that Dean had gotten bad information from whatever demon he’d pried the sigils out of. When he unlocked the warded cuffs, Castiel would be able to tear the warding off his mouth. If he couldn’t free himself from his bindings, he’d at least be able to flee the vessel. Ideally, he’d put Dean to sleep, but with his eyes covered he wasn’t sure where the larger man was, and he didn’t want to waste valuable seconds groping for him in the darkness.

“Glad to hear it, man. I think these are done, so I’m going to take the cuffs off. Let me know if this feels better, okay?”

Castiel heard metal clinking and groaned with relief as his grace flooded down past his elbows and into his palms. The sigils carved into his skin still stung, healing far slower than they should have. He’d deal with that later, after he’d removed the gag.

A second after the shackles had dropped to the table, Castiel lunged forward, straining the bonds around his chest as he brought his freed hands to his face.

Or, as he tried to, at least.

“Not so fast, there,” Dean intoned, and his hands were pinned back to the table. Something rough wrapped around his wrists, cinching them together and pulling tight.

“We’re not even close to done here.”

 

After Cas’s wrists were bound together, Dean was faced with the problem of what to do with them. They had previously been secured to the table, but that wasn’t going to work for the next steps.

He checked the back of Cas’s chair and was happy to see that the back was made of solid slats. Satisfied, he hauled Cas’s arms up and behind him, securing his wrists to the slat behind his neck. He tugged at the bonds, happy with the little whimper Cas let out when his arms were wrenched back.

“That was not a good plan, Cas. I was going to take the blindfold off for the next step, but if that’s how you’re going to behave, you can do this in the dark.”

Cas’s breath caught for just an instant. Someone who didn’t know him might not have noticed, but to Dean, he might as well have been screaming. The angel was scared. Good. Even if he got himself out of the spell Dean was working, he’d still think twice before crossing this particular demon again. Dean knew better than anyone that the angel was out to fix the entire universe, but that didn’t mean he had to start with Dean. Plenty of evil to fight in the world; there’s no reason to seek out the evil that knows you personally. Intimately.

Dean grabbed the back of the chair, tipping his captive backward and dragging the chair away from the table on two legs. There was a skylight not too far away, and he stopped underneath it, dropping the chair. He retrieved another chair and settled in front of the bound angel.  

“Lift your chin,” he told Cas, rolling his eyes in frustration when the angel managed to look like a confused puppy even with half his face covered. He put two fingers under the angel’s jaw, pushing up until Cas’s throat was bared.

“Stay,” he growled, and went to work on the shirt.  

 

“ _I’ve been here before,”_ Castiel thought as the buttons of his shirt popped off and skittered across the floor. Last time it had been an angel blade and a reaper, and she’d been demanding information instead of keeping him gagged, but the experience was still similar enough to instill a moderate to severe feeling of déjà vu.

The ruined shirt was pulled open, baring his torso, and he shuddered as he remembered the feeling of April’s angel blade slicing into his flesh.

He struggled against his bonds, suddenly desperate to know what Dean was planning. The demon huffed in response, and Castiel felt hands on his chest, pushing him back against the chair.  

“What did I say about holding still, man? You think you’d be a little more grateful. I’ve got a dozen angel blades scattered around this place, I could have ganked you and been done with it an hour ago. Instead I’m taking time out of _my_ day to bind your grace up so that you can go free. And this is the thanks I get.”

Fingers ran through Castiel’s hair, gripping a fistful and yanking his head back.

“Last chance. Hold still and let me finish, or I’ll off you and go figure out how to disable Sam.”

Castiel froze.

“That’s what I thought.”

 

 

Dean double-checked the scrap of paper that the demon had given him, making sure that the sigil he was about to inscribe was correct. He’d seen this one before in the lore a few times. The men of letters had a report on damn near everything, even if they didn’t know the meaning. Or if there was no meaning. Hell, there was probably a comprehensive record of deity-on-food appearances squirrelled away in the bunker somewhere.

Satisfied, he turned back to his canvas, enjoying the way Cas tried not to flinch away from his presence. His breath was coming a little fast, and thin sweat had broken out over his body, but despite all that, he was doing his best to comply with Dean’s order. Dean liked that.

He soaked another wad of gauze in the alcohol, letting the cold liquid drip onto Cas’s stomach, just to the left of the protective wards tattooed onto his skin. Fat lot of good those did him.

Dean turned his attention back to the angel’s throat, wiping the soaked gauze over his chest, below the collar. This one would be easier; the skin over the breastbone was much less elastic. Of course, that meant it was also going to hurt a lot more, but hey, pain means you’re still alive.

“You know,” he remarked as he began the first series of incisions, “if you’re going to be human, you should probably look into getting an anti-possession tattoo. Hiding from angels is great and all, but there’s nothing quite like not getting _worn._ ”

He punctuated the last word with a deep horizontal stroke. He watched Cas’s grace lazily follow the course of the wound. It wasn’t as fast or as thorough as it would normally have been- it was healing a _binding sigil_ after all- but it was definitely there. The sides of the incision stitched themselves slowly together, leaving a thick pinkish-white line where the gash had been. Within a few minutes, the entire sigil had sealed itself shut. If it weren’t for the smears and drips of blood running down the angel’s skin, Dean would have guessed the wound was years old.

 

The sigil was healed, but it still felt sore and tight. Castiel kept his head tilted back, cradled in his bound hands, waiting for whatever Dean had planned next. Wherever he’d gotten them, the sigils were the real deal. With each slice, his awareness of his vessel had diminished, system after system going dark as the body’s autonomous processes replaced Castiel’s careful manipulation. When Dean had made the first cut, he had been able to feel the separation of each individual cell, track the progress of each escaping platelet. By the time he was finished, the whole area was engulfed in a screaming, fuzzy impression of _no_ and _stop_ and _pain._

He was surprised to find that he’d been biting down onto the cloth stuffed into his mouth, as though the tightening of his jaw muscles had any relation to the assault on his chest.

Something warm pressed against his chest, and it was all he could do not to lean into the sensation. The pain was a memory now, an echo from a dream, but the soft cloth on his skin soothed it nonetheless.

“Ready for the moment of truth? Of course you are. Fair warning, though, this is going to hurt.”  

 _What a nice change,_ Castiel had time to think before the tape was ripped from his mouth. He coughed, spitting out the cloth and breathing deep for the first time in hours.

“Dean, these sigils, you have no idea the power you’re-“

“Hold on a sec, Cas, you’ve still got some blood here.”

The wet towel swiped across his mouth once, gently, before clamping down hard. Dean was behind him, hands forcing Castiel’s head back against his hips, making it impossible to twist out of his grip. The hand on his mouth tightened, cutting off his air, and Castiel thrashed against the hands and bonds that held him. What he felt wasn’t cells reporting a build up of carbon dioxide, or lungs indicating that respiratory functions had ceased. What he felt was _need_. His throat, his chest, his head, billions of cells and neurons and nerves all sending a single unified _demand._ His chest heaved, trying to pull at air that wasn’t there. His thrashing weakened, muscles burning from exertion.

 _Anaerobic respiration,_ his mind helpfully supplied.

He could feel Dean behind him, solid and unmoving, watching him.

 _He’ll never forgive himself for this,_ he realized. When Sam finally found a way to remove the mark, when the full weight of humanity landed back on Dean’s shoulders, this sight would keep him up at night.

Spots of color swam lazily across the darkness, which meant something important that Castiel couldn’t remember at the moment. His fingers twitched, catching on the seam of Dean’s shirt. He curled his fingers around the fabric, trying desperately to convey one last message.

_I forgive you._

_I forgive you._

_Even if you never can, I do._

_I-_

Cas’s body went limp under him, and even then, Dean gave it another couple of seconds before releasing him. The resulting gasp was automatic, the unconscious body hauling itself back from death’s door.

Dean regretted having to do that. A bit. For one, the angel was much more interesting when he was awake. For another, it wasn’t the sort of christening Dean would have wanted for Cas’s newly human form.

But, the rag he’d pressed to Cas’s face was just a washcloth. No warding, no sigils, no magic. The seraph had thought he was about to die, and he still hadn’t fled the vessel, and that could only mean that he couldn’t. The binding on his chest had successfully bound the angel into his vessel.

For better or worse, Cas was human again.

Dean spent the next few minutes cleaning the blood off his bound angel. The shirt was ruined, the sleeves bloodstained to the elbow and the buttons scattered to the corners of the bunker, never to be seen again. Dean slipped his blade up one sleeve, then the other, pulling until the ruined garment came free in his hands. He wadded it up and tossed it toward the trash. He missed, but only because it unfolded in midair. He’d get it later.

He turned back to Castiel and was struck with the memory of the last time he’d seen him like this. Tied down, bloody, head hanging limp onto his chest. That time, he’d been dead, the silver angel blade protruding from his chest like a bizarre headstone.

He’d been dead, and Dean hadn’t had the time to mourn for even a second before drawing the blade out and rushing to help Sam. It was only later, when April was lying safely dead on the floor, that Dean had been able to turn his attention to Cas.

The _emptiness_ that had blossomed in his chest was just one more reason he preferred being a demon. Even the demon he was now, shot full of purified blood and subject to all these _feelings._ The kind of feelings that had driven him to his knees that day, reaching to cup Cas’s lifeless face in his hands. Driven him to call out Cas’s name like he thought he could call loud enough to bring his friend back from the _dead._

He was suddenly desperate to pull the blindfold off, to shake Cas back to consciousness and see his eyes when he realized he was _alive._ He wouldn’t be hunting or purifying any knights of hell any time soon, but he wasn’t dead. For Team Free Will, sometimes that’s as close to a win as they got.

He wiped the blood off Cas’s forearms and got a clean cloth before starting on his face. His skin had split at the bridge of his nose, sending twin trails of reddish-brown blood down his face. His mouth was a bloody horror show, blood crusted thick where it had run from his nose and split lip. Dean settled between Cas’s legs, leaning in close to dab the sticky substance off his skin.

“…Dean?”

“Welcome back, angel.”  


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel could taste blood where his lips had been ground into his teeth. His grace sparked lazily along the skin, mending it and leaving a metallic tang in his mouth. He licked his lips, grimacing at the feel of old blood on his tongue.

“Where’s Sam?”

His voice was weaker than he’d hoped. Dean laughed.

“I swear, you are the most self-sacrificing bastard I’ve ever met. I just choked you unconscious and the first thing you do when you wake up is worry about _Sam?_ ”

Dean’s hands closed over his throat, pressing gently.

“Should I do it again? Longer this time. How many rounds until you start worrying about yourself for a change?”

“I would rather you didn’t.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

Dean’s grip tightened for a moment, and then the pressure was gone, and Dean was scrubbing at his skin with the cloth again.

“Even if I choked you right out, it would be, what, the tenth time you’ve died for this fucked-up cause of yours? Always happy to die for the Winchesters, right?”

“Dean, where is your brother?”

“Oh for fucks’s sake. I didn’t kill Sam, okay? He’s in his room thinking about what he’s done.” Dean considered for a moment. “Actually, scratch that. _Sam’s_ the most self-sacrificing bastard I’ve ever met. So he’s in his room blaming himself for this entire situation and imagining all the horrible tortures I’m putting you through so he can blame himself for those, too. Or he’s imagining the horrible tortures I’m going to put _him_ through when I’m done in here, and wallowing in self-loathing at how much he _deserves_ it all.”

Castiel imagines that he can hear Dean’s eyes rolling.

“He’s trying to help you.”

“Yeah, only I don’t _need_ help, Cas. I might be the only person in this bunker that doesn’t. I’m not wrapped up in all that fucking _regret._ I sleep like a baby, I get laid on a regular basis, and I haven’t gotten the shit beat out of me in months, which is more than I can say for Lefty out there. Or you. How many times has this happened to you now? I don’t want to judge your lifestyle choices, man, but this whole tied-up-and-getting-cut-on thing is kinda turning into a habit of yours.”

“I also wish that I were ‘cut on’ with less frequency,” Castiel muttered.

“So quit fucking around with shit you can’t change. I’ve been trying to save the world since I was four. Like if I stopped for even a second, everything would collapse, only guess what, _it didn’t._ The world doesn’t need me to hold it up, Cas. And it doesn’t need Sam, and it doesn’t need you.”

Castiel frowned.

“You and your brother stopped the apocalypse, Dean. You can hardly say you don’t matter in the grand scheme.”

“Yeah, the apocalypse. Twice. And then the leviathans and Eve and every other two-bit fucker out there trying to eat the universe. And all it cost was everyone I knew. We sure showed them.”

“What about the playground?”

“What playground.”

“When we failed to prevent the rising of Samhain and the breaking of the seal. You went to a playground and watched the children that were alive because of you and Sam.”

Castiel waited, half expecting a violent repercussion. None came.

“Even with the mark, Dean, you’re still the righteous man. The nuances of feeling may be lost to you, but at your _core,_ you aren’t a man who would allow evil to persist. Not if there was something you could do about it.”

“Fuck you. You don’t know.”

The corner of Castiel’s mouth raised into something that was almost a smile.

“I’ve touched your soul, Dean. I carried you out of hell and held you tight as I put you back together atom by atom. I’ve held the very essence of your being in my hands, and seen everything you ever were and ever could be. I assure you, I do know.”

Fingers tightened in Castiel’s hair, dragging him backwards. Dean’s voice was hot in his ear, and his voice was dangerously low.

“Well, you’re the expert then, Cas, so tell me this. Would that heart of gold I’ve got stop me from cutting your _fucking tongue out_ if you were _fucking irritating me?_ What do you think?”

Castiel swallowed, his throat suddenly tight.

“I believe that would be within your abilities.”

“Good,” Dean murmured. His voice had turned to silk in Castiel’s ear. “I think so too. So maybe you keep your opinions to yourself and I won’t be tempted to discover what else might be _within my abilities_.”

Castiel licked his lips, weighing his words carefully. And then, softly, “Those children are still alive, Dean. Every one.”

The resulting blow sent flashes of color across his vision, bright reds and yellows in the darkness. A detached part of his mind noted that this pain was different from the quick-slash pain of the incisions, or the deep hollow ache of suffocating. This one was sharp and dull at the same time, and he was struck with in incongruous desire to press his hand against the throb in his temple. Unlike last time, he didn’t feel like gritting his teeth would help.

He tried it anyway.

It didn’t help.

 

 

Dean watched the muted glow of Castiel’s grace as it cleaned up what would otherwise have developed into an exemplary shiner. It pissed him off and he considered hitting him a couple more times, to see if it would stick. He’d been having thoughts like that, lately. He’d started more than one fight just to see how fast his opponent could bruise.

Cas was shaking his head, trying to rub the glowing patch of skin against his shoulder. There was a patch of blood at the corner of his mouth that Dean had missed earlier, and from somewhere very, very deep, something screamed at Dean to _stop hurting him!_

“You brought this on yourself,” Dean muttered, explaining himself to Cas and definitely no one else. “I’ve been minding my own business. Nobody asked you to come to the rescue. You started it.”

_You started it? Are we eight years old?_

“Of course I did.” Cas’s head hung low, and Dean noticed belatedly that behind his head, his hands were starting to turn dark. “I’ll always come when you need me.”

“Oh my god, could you be sappier. _I don’t need you._ Keep up with the class.”

“I’m still an angel, Dean. We can tell when we’re being called.”

For a second, Dean saw red.

“You presumptuous fucking _bastard,_ ” he hissed. Castiel flinched back, finally afraid of him but apparently not nearly frightened enough. “I get it. You’re a slow learner. So I’m taking that one out of Sam’s hide.”

“Dean-”

“No. Shut up.”

“Please, I’m sorry-”

Dean backhanded him, and Cas took the hint.

Dean sat back, considering. This might be the angle he’d been looking for. God knew his two little saviors would run themselves ragged trying to ‘cure’ this. There was nothing he could do, up to and including _dying_ , apparently, that would distract them. Not that he’d been any different. Dean remembered his days at the self-depreciating rodeo; no matter how many hits you took, you stood up and asked for another.

 _Especially_ if there was someone you needed to protect.

“I’ll give Sam a third of what I would have given you.”

“It was my-”

“Yeah, your fault. I know. What else is new. But it’ll be much easier on him, since he won’t be getting it as bad.”

“I’ll take the full punishment, Dean. Please don’t hurt Sam.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to do.”

Cas shook his head vigorously.

“It doesn’t matter. It was my mistake and I’ll take the consequences.”

“Fair enough.”

Dean stood up and stretched his arms over his head, starting to work the stiffness out of his shoulders.

“If Sam were here, he could tell you. He was always a mouthy little shit as a kid. I learned my lesson early, but Sammy? Seems like there were weeks where he wouldn’t say a word _except_ backtalk. Dad about went crazy trying to work some discipline into him.”

Dean paused, grinning.  

“You ever been whipped, Cas?”

The angel hesitated.

“No.”

“Really? Not even at that angel re-education camp you were vacationing at?”

“We are non-corporeal beings, corporal punishment would have been…. misplaced.”

Dean grinned.

“Well, first time for everything then.”

He dug the little iron key out of his pocket and set about unlocking the shackles on Cas’s legs. The seraph was developing a habit of flinching away from his touches. Adorable. Dean leaned in, forearms resting on Cas’s thighs. He exhaled softly, close enough to raise goose bumps on the other man’s skin.  

“Dean?”

“Castiel?”

“What are you doing?”

“Unlocking you. You need to move.”

“You’ve finished. What are you doing now?”

Dean ran the pad of his thumb across Cas’s ribs, grinning when the angel stiffened and leaned away.

“What does it feel like I’m doing?”

Cas hesitated, considering his words. Good. He was learning.

“You’re very close to me. Closer than I would expect to be appropriate given our circumstances.”

“All those talks about personal space finally making sense?”

“I… don’t know.”

Dean rolled his eyes, and turned his attention to the ropes binding Cas’s hands. He’d been angry when he’d tied them, and they were too tight. He undid the knots around the back of the chair, and loosened the twisted bindings holding his wrists together. Blue sparks wound lazily beneath the skin.

“Do you feel pins and needles?”

“There is a…. distinctly unpleasant sensation.”

“That’ll go away. Stand up.”

Cas rose hesitantly to his feet.

“Do you know where you are?”

“No.”

“We’re in one of the sitting rooms. I considered doing this down in the dungeon, but the chairs up here are nicer. Keep your hands in front of you, and walk forward.”

The room opened to the library through a wide arch, and it was toward this arch that Dean now led Castiel.

“Reach up.”

Cas raised his hands slowly, like he thought he was going to encounter something sharp. Dean grabbed the binding between his wrists, raising them up until his fingertips touched the wood paneling.

“I want you to put your hands on that arch and hold them there. Understand?”

“Yes.”

Cas had to stand on his toes to reach, but he managed to press the palms of his hands against the dark wood.

“Scared?”

Cas hesitated.

“Yes.”

“Good. Sam would have gotten five, you’re getting fifteen. Not too late to change your mind. You sure you want to do this?”

Cas’s hands tightened on the wood.

“I’m sure.”

“You’re going to count them off for me.” Dean circled around, noting the sheen already breaking out on the angel’s skin. He slipped a finger behind Cas’s belt buckle, pulling him forward and slightly off balance. To his credit, he recovered without letting go of the paneling. He worked the buckle open.

“… Dean?”

The black slacks were slightly too large, falling low on Cas’s hips without the belt to hold them up. That was okay.

“I’m a little surprised you didn’t run for it.”

Cas shook his head.

“I know better.”

“I’d hoped so, but I’m proud of you anyway. So I’m going to give you a choice. Ready?”

Cas nodded. Dean doubled the belt over, holding the buckle in his hand.

“Do you want these on the back or the front?”

“Back.”

“You sure?”

“ _Yes._ ” Castiel’s voice cracked.

Dean grinned, twisting the leather in his hands.

“Beg me.”

“What?”

Dean lay the doubled belt across Cas’s shoulders, letting him feel where the first blow would land.

“If you’re sure you want this, then beg me to whip you.”

“I don’t want this, Dean.”

“You want me to do it to Sammy?”

“ _NO!”_

“Then beg me.”

Beneath the leather strap, Cas’s shoulders were beginning to tense. Dean would never have guessed that there were muscles under all those baggy layers the angel wore.

“Please, Dean.”

“Please Dean _what?_ ”

Cas ground his teeth together.

“Please w…. please whip me.”

Dean grinned. His eyes flicked black.

“With pleasure.”  

 

 

 

More than anything, Castiel wished he could see it coming. He’d hoped that the strap would whistle, but the only sound was the _CRACK_ the leather made when it landed on his skin. He grit his teeth. He was a soldier. He’d flown through hellfire and fought battles on the surface of Neptune. He could handle a belt.

“What do you say, Cas?”

“One.”

By three, he’d begun focusing on the feeling of the archway beneath his hands. It kept him grounded. It reminded him of what he needed to do. Keep his hands up. Hold still.

Five landed low across his hips, and he felt grace crackling along the torn skin. He bit his lip and focused on staying upright. The body wanted to drop, curl, make itself into a smaller target. Protect itself. He ignored it.

Seven was perpendicular to the others, crossing the broken skin, and Castiel forgot how to breathe. The number wouldn’t come out and Dean waited patiently for him to catch his breath.

After ten, Dean left him to heal. He tried to feel the difference between the old strokes and the new ones, to gauge how fast he was healing, but it was like trying to pick a snowflake out of a blizzard. Everything from shoulder to hip was lost in a static feedback loop of pain.

Dean wiped him down with the ragged remains of his shirt.

“Please take the blindfold off. Please. I can’t do this blind.”

“You’re doing great, Cas. Better than I expected. We’re almost done.”

“ _Please_ , Dean!”

He hated how desperate the words sounded. He hated the panic clutching at his throat and telling him to flee. He was locked into this body and it was fighting him every step of the way.

“Alright.”

Dean’s hands were on his face, sliding under the silk.

“I’ll take it off, and I’ll let you skip the last five.”

The relief turned to ice in his stomach.

“In exchange for what?”

“You and I take a walk down to Sammy’s room, and you tell him what you did for him. How you begged me to punish you.”

“No.”

“But think of how grateful he’ll be.”

Castiel scowled.

“He’ll be mortified. And you know it.”

“Oh, don’t I ever. He’ll crank those puppy dog eyes up to eleven and have some kind of hysterical crying fit about how he’s not worth it. It’ll be great.”

Light was bleeding through the edges of the blindfold, where it stretched over Dean’s fingertips. Castiel focused on the light. The wood was getting slippery under his hands. He could feel his fingers slipping. He ordered them to stay where they were, but the vessel wasn’t responding.

“So, do you want the last five, or do you want to go visit Sam?”

“This isn’t you, this is the mark making you-”

“Wrong answer.”

They came in rapid succession, one after another across the skin of his belly, overlapping each other. Dean wasn’t waiting for the count, and Castiel wasn’t counting. He couldn’t scream. There wasn’t air. He couldn’t feel the wood under his hands, and he realized his legs had given out. He was kneeling on the floor, shoulders hunched, covering himself with his bound hands as best he could.

“Stand up.”

He tried. He told his body to straighten but it refused. His bruised midsection was sending him waves of heat in time with his heartbeat. He tried to raise his arms, to climb back to his feet, but he couldn’t move. Couldn’t expose himself again.

“Cas, stand up.”

“ _I can’t!”_

The buckle bit into his shoulder. Something tore in his throat, and his voice broke. He hadn’t known he was screaming.

“Are you _trying_ to piss me off?”  

 

 

 

That’s it. Of course. Of course Cas was trying to antagonize him. Sam too, if the little shit thought he was going to fight a knight of hell with his arm broken.

Dean looked down at the huddled form in front of him. Blue threads of grace worked their way across his back, healing the damage. Cas was hunched in on himself in a classic defensive position, but Dean wasn’t fooled. The angel _wanted_ this. This was Cas atoning for something. Castiel, angel of the Lord, was a card-carrying member of the Fuckup Club and he damn well knew it. And if he couldn’t get his penance done in purgatory, well, the friendly neighborhood demon can always be counted on to deal out a few beatings.

Two can play at that game.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I wrote sex. Let me know how I did? Finding words for stuff is hard. Sorry? Not sorry. 
> 
> Just a warning: this chapter contains rape. If you're not cool with that, the time to stop reading is now.

The pain faded slowly. Castiel waited for whatever was coming next. If he weren’t frozen he would have snatched the blindfold off, and he didn’t want to think about what would happen to him if he dared.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” Dean murmured. There was a muted _thunk_ as the belt dropped to the ground. “Come on Cas, get up.”

Strong hands were on his shoulders, pulling him to his feet. And then they were wrapping around him, holding him up and engulfing him in warmth.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up. We’ll get you some food and figure out what we’re gonna do.”

Dean’s fingers brushed the side of his face, and he blinked in the light as the blindfold was drawn away.

“Dean, what-”

“Shh. It’ll be okay. I’ll make it right.”

Dean’s eyes were green and bright, no trace of the inky darkness that had haunted them the last few weeks.

_Sam did it. The blood worked._

Castiel breathed a sign of relief, resting his forehead against his friend’s shoulder.

“Thank you.”

 

 

Cas’s wrists were bruised and chafed where the rope had held them together. Dean sliced through the bindings, rubbing feeling back into Cas’s hands when the pins and needles returned. The cold skin had warmed by the time he released them.

“Wait here.”

Dean disappeared into the bunker, returning a few minutes later with a bundle of cloth and a pair of bottles. He placed the soda in front of Cas, keeping the beer for himself.

“Alcohol’s bad for dehydration, I hear. And you, uh, you lost some, uh…. I mean…”

_You’ve been bleeding a lot this evening, Castiel._

“You get it,” he finished lamely. Cas nodded and dutifully took a gulp of the dark liquid. Dean held out the spare clothes he’d fished out of his room.

“Figured you’d want a shirt again. It’s just one of my old band tees. I’ll get you something better in the morning. I haven’t done laundry or I’d get something now. A real shirt I mean. With buttons.”

“It’s fine.” Cas’s mouth quirked when he took the bundle. “You value this. I’ve seen you wear it on many occasions.”

“Uh…. I wear that to bed, Cas.”

“I know. I’ve spent several nights watching over you.”

Castiel looked up at him, and Dean swallowed.

“That’s kinda weird, Cas.”

“So you’ve told me. Do I have-?”

The angel nodded to one shoulder, indicating the scabbing bruise where the buckle had bitten into his skin.

“Yeah, there’s some blood there. Hold on, I’ll get it.”

He retrieved another towel from the bathroom down the hall ( _going through these fast tonight aren’t we Dean)_ and soaked this one in hot water before returning. Castiel was where he had left him. His head was buried in arms folded across the table in front of him. Angry red lines crossed his back, glowing with the same dull blue-and-gold light Dean had seen before. They’d stopped bleeding, but they were still swollen and bruised.

Dean folded the towel into thirds, laying it gently across the other man’s shoulders.

“Let me know if it’s too much?”

Cas let out a low moan. Dean took that as acknowledgement and began working the hot cloth across the muscles of his shoulders. Under his hands, the skin glowed gold and the marks seemed to heal faster. Probably the heat. He kept working, though the blood was long gone, running his fingers along the tense muscles of Cas’s back. Castiel responded with small noises of appreciation. He’d stopped flinching.

“How’s your front?”

“Hurts,” Castiel muttered into his forearms.

“Sit up, let me look.”

“It’s fine.”

“I’ve been on the other end of a beating like that, Cas. It’s not fine. Let me look.”

Castiel turned his head, one blue eye regarding him with suspicion. Dean set his jaw, and Cas straightened up with a sigh.

 

 

The hot cloth was a balm on his skin. Far more than five lashes had landed across his chest and stomach. He didn’t care to count them. They’d be gone soon. For now, he ignored the pain and focused on the feeling of Dean’s hands on him. They lingered on his chest, running over his shoulders, down his arms, over his ribs, even ghosting up his neck and over the shell of his ear. He watched Dean, and Dean refused to meet his eyes. He focused on the task at hand, the body beneath him. He worked his way down, hands warm where they brought healing grace to the surface of Castiel’s skin. Castiel relaxed and let it work through him. This was something he missed as an angel. Touch, like food, was better experienced in the muddy vagaries of human perception. An angel could feel synapses firing, sodium and potassium carrying messages along each individual nerve. He couldn’t feel that now. What he felt now was _warm_ and _nice_ and _safe._ Dean’s touch had always felt like friendship.

Dean paused. His hands were splayed across Castiel’s hips, where the trailing marks disappeared past the waistline of his pants. His thumb slipped beneath the fabric, and he finally looked up, the question on his face. Castiel licked his lips. This touch felt different. The skin here reacted differently, sending shivers up his spine and making his hair stand on end.

“Let me fix it,” Dean murmured, looking down again.

“Dean, what-“

And then lips were on his, soft and dry. Dean’s hands were on his hips, sliding along the skin, and his grace sang to the surface to meet them. The pain was gone, replaced by warmth and a vague _need_.

“You’ve wanted this,” Dean whispered against his lips. “I know. And I pushed you away. I was stupid and you deserved better. Let me make it better.”

He remembered this feeling. The feeling he had felt with April, and before that, when his vessel had reacted to the video with the babysitter. Heat pooled in his belly, hot and tight, and more than anything he wanted to press himself against Dean’s body, pull him close.

“Let me in, Cas. I’ll make it good for you.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but his words were cut off again as Dean kissed him, hard, possessive. The hunter’s arms wrapped around Castiel’s waist, lifting him and pulling him close. Castiel groaned at the sudden friction of Dean’s body. Dean’s hands had felt right on him, and his mouth had sent shivers down Castiel’s body, but nothing compared to this, the feeling of _Dean_ rocking against him. Castiel felt his body responding of it’s own accord, grinding into Dean’s stomach as his breath came in bursts. He forced himself to still.

“Dean, stop this.”

“Don’t worry, angel. I’ll take care of you.”

“Not like this.”

“Like what?”

Dean’s hips rocked against his, letting him feel the solid length straining against the denim.  

“Like that? You like feeling me there, all hard and ready for you?” Dean ground against him again, and Cas knew the other man could feel him getting hard. “Yeah, you like it.”

“Dean, _please-_ ”

“Shh, angel. Don’t beg me yet.”

“I want you-”

“You have me,” Dean’s voice was muffled as he mouthed at Castiel’s jaw.

“I want _you_ , in your right mind. You’re not you. The blood hasn’t finished purifying you.”

Dean’s eyes flicked to black, but he didn’t pull away.

“Was I that obvious?”

“You haven’t let Sam out. Dean would never leave him incarcerated.”

Dean laughed.

“And ‘Dean’ would never seduce his best friend, no matter how much he wants to or how easy he knows it would be. And yet, here I am.”

Castiel tried to pull away, but Dean held him fast.

“Oh, I’ve noticed. How you’re always following me like a girl with a crush. I know you’ve wanted this since you started to fall. Do you have any idea how _hot_ it is, knowing that I was one word away from having an angel suck my cock?”

Castiel’s eyes widened, and he pushed against Dean’s chest, trying to get away, but Dean was between his legs and he couldn’t shift far enough. The tightness in his abdomen shifted, and he recognized this feeling too. He had felt it when the angel came to him in the bus under the bridge. This tightness was fear.

He pulled back abruptly, wrenching out of Dean’s hold and falling to the floor. He crawled backwards on his hands and knees, and one look at Dean’s face had him scrambling to his feet and running. He didn’t know where to. He didn’t know where he was. He just knew he had to get away from Dean, and fast, before something irreparable happened.  

Through the archway was the main library, and at the far side of the library was a door. If the door led to the hallway, he’d be able to hide, lose Dean in the labyrinth and regroup. Maybe find Sam. If he could make it to the door.

_Please let the door open out._

He didn’t know if it was a prayer or a plea or who he expected to listen. In the last four years he’s put his faith in only one being, and that being was currently bearing down on him with a feral roar that made his blood run cold.

_Please let it open out._

He slammed into the doorframe, twisting the handle and shoving with all his might. The door didn’t budge. He cursed and yanked on it, and he was rewarded with a brief glimpse of the hallway before fingers tightened in his hair and his head slammed into the doorframe.

 

 

 

 

Cas clutched weakly at Dean’s wrists as he was dragged back across the floor. Dean dropped him, snatching up the shackles from where they were lying discarded on the table. He dropped to his knees, straddling Cas’s midsection, and snapped one of the bracelets shut over his wrist. The other he threaded through the bars of the radiator before yanking Cas’s other hand up and securing it, as well.

Cas was murmuring, and by the ribbons of blue grace furrowing across his skin, Dean would guess he had a concussion.

He pressed a soft kiss to the angel’s lips. Cas blinked up at him, muttering words which might have been enochian or just brain damage. Sparks of blue circled lazily in the angel’s right iris.

Dean moved down his body, sucking bruises into the skin. He paused to run his tongue around a hardened nipple. Castiel moaned, arching into the touch. Satisfied, Dean continued down, lifting himself off the angel to settle between his legs. His fingers trailed down the trail of dark hair descending from Castiel’s navel. He popped the button and started working the zipper down. The slacks were already loose, slipping easily when Dean pulled them over his hips.

“Nn-!”

Cas jerked, yanking his legs up and staring at Dean with wide blue eyes. Dean ignored the protest and finished stripping the angel. Cas kicked at him, but the angle was wrong for any kind of real damage.

“Aww, baby, don’t be like that.”

Dean knelt between Cas’s thighs, leaning down to cover the other man’s body with his own. The angel’s eyes were fire and ice.

“Don’t do this, Dean.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I very much do.”

“Lying’s a sin, you know,” Dean murmured, nuzzling his way along Cas’s collar. He nipped at the angel’s throat. “Don’t tell me you haven’t pictured this. Imagined what it would be like.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, but it _does,_ Cas. I’m a demon. Hedonism is what I _do._ Take advantage of it, while you have the chance.”

Dean ground his hips into Cas’s naked skin, letting him know just how much Dean was _enjoying_ the situation they found themselves in.

“Tell me,” he said, keeping his eyes on Cas’s face.  
“-you haven’t fantasized-”   
He kissed his way down the angel’s chest.

“-about how it would feel-“

His tongue dipped into Cas’s navel and the angel’s eyes widened.

“- to have me go down on you.”

 

 

 

Cas’s head fell back when Dean’s mouth closed over his cock. He wasn’t hard, and he was determined to stay that way. He wouldn’t participate in this. Not when it was the mark driving his friend to do it.

Dean took all of him in, tongue extended to slide along his balls. Castiel moaned, twisting at the shackles holding his hands, focusing on the pain to drive out the feeling of what Dean was doing.

“Please, Dean, not like this.”

Dean paused long enough to pull his shirt over his head, baring what felt like miles of pale, muscled skin. Castiel swallowed. Didn’t imagine what it would feel like to run his fingers over the scars. Didn’t wonder what the hunter’s skin would taste like. Definitely didn’t watch the muscles in his shoulders flexing as he lowered himself onto Castiel’s cock again.

That tightness in his stomach was back, and Castiel had to bite his lip before he said something blasphemous.

Dean was holding the base of Castiel’s cock with one hand and rolling his balls in the other. His tongue laved across the underside, drawing a low moan out of the angel. His fingers tightened around the base, twisting gently as he stroked and sucked Castiel to full hardness.

“God, Cas, you’re gorgeous like this.”

Castiel clenched his eyes shut, burying his face in his shoulder, willing himself to be anywhere but here. Anywhere but this godforsaken bunker, spread naked on the floor while a demon destroyed the only friendship he’d ever valued. He cursed the wings that had carried him away so many times when he should have stayed, only to fail him now.

Dean stood, shucking off his jeans without modesty. Castiel tried not to think of how he’d imagined this moment, on the occasions he’d allowed himself to fantasize. He’d imagined Dean as strong and gentle, warm and solid against his body, smiling between kisses.

Dean was smiling now, but it was a cynical, sardonic mockery of the real thing. On Dean’s mouth, it looked like a desecration.

Castiel pulled himself up, ignoring the sting of the shackles biting into his skin. He drew his knees in, trying to cover himself and failing.

“Cas, don’t be like that. Relax. I’ll make this good for you.” Dean pushed his legs back down, straddling his thighs. He grinned lasciviously, eyes flicking to black. He licked his palm, sloppy and, Castiel suspected, mostly for show. It didn’t matter when he wrapped his hand around their dicks, trapping them together. Dean shifted his hips, fucking into his own hand. Castiel grimaced, clenching his eyes against the sight. Dean’s hands were making a channel, tight and spit-slick, and it was taking everything he had not to thrust up into it.

“ _Dean-“_

“Yeah baby, say my name.”

“Dean, _please_ -“

Castiel wasn’t sure what he was begging for.

 

 

Dean watched the angel coming apart underneath him, and was pretty sure he’d never seen anything so hot in his whole life. He was flying a bit blind here, but judging by Cas’s reaction, he was doing alright.

“Ever been with a man, Cas?”

Cas shook his head vigorously. He looked like he was trying to retreat into his mind. Dean reached up and tweaked a nipple, pinching gently. Cas gasped, firmly back in the moment.

“Me neither. I used to have so many _preferences_ , you know? Couldn’t just take a good thing when it came my way.” He reached up to Cas’s face, fingers resting lightly on the angel’s lips. “Open up.”

The angel regarded him silently, jaw clenched. Dean scowled.

“Sex 101, Cas, it’s better for everybody if both parties participate.”

“I don’t want this to be good.”

“Well that’s too bad because I do. Last chance.”

Castiel glared up at him, his narrowed eyes dark.

“Fine, we’ll do this the fun way.”

Dean leaned forward, nuzzling against Cas’s chest. He sucked on the pad of muscle just under his shoulder and then without warning, he bit down hard. Castiel screamed and thrashed, but he was pinned under Dean’s body and there was nowhere for him to go. Dean lapped at the wound, tasting the ozone and copper mix of blood on his tongue. He sucked two fingers into his own mouth, coating them with the slippery liquid.

“Dean, _stop,_ you don’t want this, I don’t want this, just _stop!_ ”

Dean kissed his mouth, letting Cas taste his own blood on Dean’s lips.

Castiel bit him.

“Do you want me to gag you again?”

“I want you to give me my clothes back and complete the purification ritual.”

“Oh, yeah, talk dirty to me.”

Dean fished around until he came up with the shirt he’d discarded earlier. He tore the sleeve off at the seam. He tied it around Cas’s mouth, enjoying the angel’s wince when he pulled it tight.

“Fuck, that’s hot, Cas. You should see yourself right now.”

Dean ran his fingers through the blood on Cas’s chest. The wound had already healed, which was a shame. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. The fluid was slick and sticky, which was good. He hoped it would be enough.

Cas’s hardon was starting to flag, a situation which Dean remedied with short, quick strokes of his left hand. His right reached behind himself, exploring a section of his anatomy which he had diligently and persistently ignored up until now. He pressed one slick finger tentatively against the puckered skin. It opened for him easily, taking one finger and then two without complaint. No pain, no fireworks. Maybe the angle was wrong? Or maybe the stories regarding this particular activity had been greatly exaggerated.

He spent another few minutes working himself open, amusing himself with the noises Cas made when he varied the pressure or speed on the other’s man’s cock. When he felt as ready as he was going to get, he took Cas into his mouth again. The head of his cock pressed against the back of Dean’s throat. He held Cas’s hips down to prevent the bucking that he suspected was involuntary.

“You ready?” he asked when he was satisfied. Cas screamed something into the gag, which Dean took for a yes.

 

 

_No._

_No no no._

_Not like this._

_Please god not like this._

_Please, Dean, not like this._

Castiel twisted and writhed, yanking at the shackles and trying to force his pinned legs to kick. He screamed into the gag, begging or threatening or just letting the frustrated helplessness escape.

Dean positioned himself above the angel, and Castiel clenched his eyes shut, refusing to watch his friend like this.

He felt himself pressing into Dean’s body, and it was hot and tight and soft and firm and Dean was _moaning_ and it was too much. Castiel bucked upwards, burying himself fully into the tight heat of _Dean_ and Dean let out a shout and fell forward, his hands on either side of Castiel’s shoulders. Castiel could feel the hunter’s erection pressing into his belly, leaving a slick trail of precome when Dean rutted against him.

“God, that’s amazing, Cas, _fuck-”_ and then Dean was moving, riding him, and the friction was burning him and bringing him to the brink and there had never been anything but this.

Dean was kissing his mouth, his hand sliding between them to stroke himself. Their motions were jerky, the rhythms didn’t match, and it didn’t matter. Cas grabbed hold of the radiator, using it as leverage to buck his hips upward, fucking into Dean with everything he had.

“Cas, look at me.”

_No no no_

He didn’t want to see Dean like this, didn’t want this memory-

“I’m-“ Dean’s voice cracked, coming out as a strangled whine. “I can’t, I’m gonna, oh, fuck, _Cas!”_

Castiel’s eyes opened as Dean rode out his climax, head thrown back and mouth opened wide, his brow furrowed and every muscle in his body tense and defined. His hand jerked over his cock, bringing spurt after spurt of come splattering over Castiel’s chest, and then he was _clenching_ and Castiel came with a roar.

 

Dean collapsed onto him, ignoring the sticky wet on his chest in favor of nuzzling into the hollow of Castiel’s throat.

“Still want to fix me, angel?” he murmured, and Castiel’s stomach dropped. “Put all those human morals and concerns and feelings back into me? What do you think it would do to our _friendship_ if I couldn’t look at you without remembering how you look when you’re coming in my ass?”

Dean’s fingers were at the nape of his neck, toying with his hair and working the knot on the gag. It didn’t matter. Castiel had nothing to say. He felt a prickling in his eyes. His chest was hollow. The flannel slipped from between his jaws, replaced by the soft press of Dean’s lips.

“You’re beautiful, Cas.” Dean kissed him gently, lovingly. Castiel didn’t respond, let it happen. “I just couldn’t see it.”

Castiel turned his head, buried his face in his shoulder. His eyes were wet, threatening to spill down his cheeks. Somehow, he thought that memory might be worse than anything else Dean had seen.

_Stop it. Just, stop it._

A flicker of motion caught his eye. ‘Castiel leaned up, catching Dean’s mouth and sucking at his lower lip. He raised his knees, pressing up into Dean’s body and wrapping his legs around the hunter’s waist.

“Yeah, baby, that’s more like it,” Dean murmured, and that’s when Sam slammed the syringe into his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As an author's note: What happened in this chapter was rape. 100%. No part of Castiel's actions should be mistaken for consent in any context. Enjoying or participating in any part of sex (including orgasm) does not negate a 'no.' If this is your kink, that's fine, enjoy it, *as a fiction.*  
> Have a safeword and never, ever choke or attempt to induce unconsciousness in your partner.


	4. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this now before I lose my nerve.

Sam pushed the plunger and Dean let out a roar that the human throat was incapable of producing. It was cut off a few seconds later when Sam clocked him over the head with what looked like a chair leg. Dean collapsed onto Castiel, who kicked and tried to writhe out from underneath him. Sam hauled his older brother off Castiel, flipping him onto his stomach and cuffing him. Working awkwardly with only one arm, he secured Dean’s wrists and ankles with lengths of rope. When he was relatively certain that he was at least partially secure, he snatched up Dean’s discarded jeans, fishing through the pockets until he found the key to Castiel’s cuffs.

To his eternal credit, he didn’t make eye contact with the angel as he removed the shackles from his bloodied wrists. Once Castiel’s hands were free, Sam shucked off his outer shirt. He handed it to the angel without looking, and Castiel took it without a sound.

On the ground, Dean was beginning to stir.

“Fuck with those ropes and I will break your god damn hands.” Sam told him, in a monotone which implied a more-then-passing familiarity with the subject.

“Can I at least have my pants back? Or did you want a turn, Sammy?”

“ _Dammit, Dean._ ”

Sam stared down at his brother, jaw clenched, fingers twitching toward the angel blade at his hip. Castiel came up behind him, laying a steadying hand at his elbow.

“The blood is working. Don’t do something you’ll regret.”

“Oh. Yeah. Because this is gonna end in _rainbows._ ”

Castiel regarded him silently.

“I’m sorry Cas. I, uh…. What do you need? Are you okay? I mean, not…”

“Do you have an iron?”

Sam blinked.

“An… iron?”

“Yes.” Castiel pulled up the sleeves of the too-big shirt, showing the scarred runes on his hands. “My grace cannot heal them while they maintain their shape. The only way to remove them is to utterly destroy the surrounding flesh. I think an iron should be sufficient.”  
“Jesus Christ, Cas…”

Castiel carried on in the same expressionless, informative tone. “I’ll also need your help. I cannot remove them myself. The warding prevents me from tampering with them. I realize that this is something that will probably be very uncomfortable for you and I wouldn’t ask if there were an alternative, but time is short and-“

Castiel’s voice was cut off as he was engulfed in a flannel bear hug.  

 

 

After two more injections, the two of them determined it was probably safe to untie Dean’s legs. Sam wrestled his jeans back on while Dean made abhorrent comments and Castiel stood guard with the chair leg. Just in case.

 

Three shots after that, they marched him back down to the dungeon and made sure he was properly secured. He was noticeably quieter by then. He flipped them the bird when they bound his wrists to the arms of the chair, but there was no heart in it.  

Sam left Castiel to guard the demon while he sought out an iron. They closed the dungeon doors, but didn’t dare venture too far. They did it in the storeroom, Castiel’s screams echoing down the empty hallways.

Dean stared at the paint on the dark floor, listening to the broken cries and trying not to feel relieved when they stopped.

 

Castiel’s grace flowed freely through his body, reporting back that everything was working correctly and the vessel was free of damage. It still took him the better part of five minutes to stop shaking.

“You okay, man?” Sam asked. The Archetypical Winchester Stupid Question.

“I didn’t know it could be like that.”

Sam didn’t have a response for that.  

 

Two shots after that, Dean fell unconscious. Sam suspected it might be a trick, but Castiel assured him it was real. Whatever the blood was doing to him, it was coming to an end. If Dean woke up, he’d be human again. If.

Sam stayed to watch over his brother.

Castiel went to take a shower, and didn’t come back for a very, very long time.

 

 

“Give him another.”

“I don’t think they’re doing anything.”

“It’s been an hour. Give him another.”

“What if we’re killing him?”

“Then we’re killing him. We’re not letting him wake up as a demon, so either he wakes up human, or he dies. Give him another.”

Sam regarded the angel for a moment, then sighed and filled the syringe with blood once more. Dean didn’t react when the needle entered his skin.

 

 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Would it be beneficial for you to have this discussion?”

Sam ran his hand through his hair.

“It’s not about me, Cas. I’m asking if _you_ want to talk about it.”

Castiel frowned.

“It can help, to talk it out with someone. After I… When I was in the cage, I…. uh…”

“This wasn’t like that.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed.

“Well. I’m sure many of the physical experiences were the same. But the intent was different.” Castiel lifted his hands, turning them over, observing them. They’d belonged to someone else before they were his. Someone who had willingly given them. It hadn’t always been like that. He remembered the first of his garrison to return from Earth with stories of a creature who had _refused_ to be a vessel. Angels were born soldiers, they had had no concept of autonomy. Castiel had been fascinated.

“This isn’t my body, Sam. Mortal creatures, they’re born into a physical form. The flesh defines their perception, and when the body fails, they cease to be. In a very real sense, your bodies are your _self_ as much as your soul. What happened to your body, Sam, happened to your self. But I wasn’t born to this body. My first vessel belonged to a creature which isn’t even in the fossil record. Every shred of it’s existence has been wiped away, but _I’m still here._ Dean’s warding allowed me to feel as a human does, but I’m not human. The violation of my vessel is no more irritating to me than a stain on a garment.”

Castiel shook his head.

“Dean’s intention wasn’t to hurt me. Dean used me to hurt himself.”

Sam’s brow furrowed. Cas pushed on.  

“Even in the pit, being trained as a butcher in Hell, Dean never did what he did to me. It’s repellant to him, abhorrent. He knew we’d never stop looking for a cure, and he didn’t want to be cured. So he struck out at our goal. At himself. His own humanity.”

Castiel inclined his head toward the unconscious hunter. “To be completely honest, I don’t know what will happen if he wakes up. It’s likely he’ll be…. damaged.”

Castiel didn’t feel it necessary to point out that Dean would never want to see him again. Their days of hunting as a team were over. He didn’t say that Dean staggered under the weight of the world or that every injection added to the burden.

Guilt. Regret. Fear. Loss. Pain.

He didn’t mention the temptation to stop. To take Sam and go, and leave Dean to the minor mayhem that was the price he paid for _peace._

He told Sam that Dean might be damaged, he didn’t point out that the damage was his fault.

 

 

It was a summer day, somewhere in the country. The sky was blue and the sun was warm on the grass. He was just drifting off to sleep when a bee stung him. The barb dug into his arm, spreading burning poison through his muscles. He grunted and tried to swat at it, but his limbs were heavy and didn’t respond when he tried to move them.

“What the hell?” he tried to mutter, but all that came out was a slurred groan. He opened his eyes, and the light vanished.

He blinked in the sudden dark. He knew where he was. This was the dungeon in the bunker. How did he get-?

Sam and Cas eyed him apprehensively, weapons held at the ready. He tried to raise his hands, only to find that he was securely bound.

“You guys look worried,” he muttered, trying to get his bearings. Sam hit him with a shot of holy water, and he flinched. He expected it to hurt, but it was just cold. Of course it was just cold. It wouldn’t burn, of course it wouldn’t, why would he think it would-

Oh.

_Oh._

Oh Jesus fuck.

“Cut me loose, I’m gonna be sick.”

 

The library was pristine. Dean had crept in the minute he’d ditched Sam, and in a way, he’d been hoping it would be just as he left it. He’d hoped to spend a long time scrubbing bloodstains out of the furniture and figuring out just what the fuck he had been _thinking._ But there was no blood. Not even any stains. Someone had beaten him to it. He wondered which of them had done it, and couldn’t decide which would be worse.

Now, Sam was out picking up greasy food from an all-night diner, and Castiel was holed up in one of the spare bedrooms, being utterly silent in a way Dean didn’t know what to do with. Castiel had stuck around the dungeon just long enough to ensure that Dean’s need to vomit was not an elaborate escape plan (it wasn’t) and that the demonic essence was cleared out of his body (it was) and then he was gone.

Dean circled the library, looking for a spot, a scratch, a smell, _something_ to validate what his memory was telling him.

There was nothing.  

 

 

 

“You must be Dean.”  

Dean’s heart jumped into his throat and he whirled, realizing only too late that he wasn’t armed.

_How did she get past the warding?_

“Sam said you’d be down here hiding outside Castiel’s door?”

“I’m not hiding!” Dean snapped.

“Of course not.” The woman gave him the deliberate, confused smile he’d come to associate with angels.

“Hannah.”

The gravelly voice from behind him made him start for the second time in as many minutes. He rounded on Cas and then realized he didn’t know what to do once he had. He had been trying to figure that out while he had been standing ( _not hiding_ ) outside Cas’s room. And now Cas was standing there completely unphased, his trench coat hanging awkwardly over one of Sam’s flannel shirts, staring at Dean with the same concerned curiosity as always, as though twelve hours ago Dean hadn’t held him down and-

Dean felt sick again.

“Getting to be a regular angel bed and breakfast we’re running here,” he quipped, because sarcasm had been his coping strategy since he was nine and you don’t switch horses mid-race.

“I don’t sleep.” Hannah informed him solemnly. “I also don’t require food.”

“That’s good, because we’re down to condiments and bourbon.”

Hannah frowned.

“I wasn’t aware that bourbon was food.”

“Been talking to Sam, I see.”

Castiel interrupted before Hannah could reply.

“I’ve done what I needed to do here, but I’m still not up to full strength. I should be ready to leave by morning.”

Hannah nodded.

“Of course. Whatever you need.”

“Thank you. Dean, may I speak with you for a moment?”

“Yeah, sure, Cas.”

“Would you prefer to do this privately?”

“Uh…. Yeah. I guess.”

Cas stepped back, holding the door to his room open in a silent invitation. Dean’s throat got tight. His body felt wooden as he passed Castiel and the angel shut the door behind them. He didn’t dare turn. If Cas was going to hit him, or tear into him, or explain exactly why he was going to hell and no one was going to save him this time, that was fine. He deserved it and more. But he didn’t want to look at the angel’s face while it happened.

“Hannah and I will be leaving in the morning. I’d go sooner, but I’ve overestimated my ability to fight off this body’s fatigue once already. It set us back several hours.” Cas sighed. “Dean, I recognize that my presence will be difficult for you, but you still have the mark. You can’t remove it on your own and I hope you’ll still accept what help I have to offer. I can correspond through Sam, if that would make you more comfortable.”

Dean blinked, and turned slowly to face the seraph.

“You self-sacrificing _bastard,_ ” he whispered, almost to himself. “All that shit I did to you, and you’re worried about what might be uncomfortable for _me?_ ”

Castiel frowned.

“Sam was able to unbind my grace. My wounds _have_ healed.” He held out his hands as proof, pale skin unmarred. “If you’d like to examine the others, I can remove my shirt-“

“ _No!”_

He hadn’t meant that to come out as forcefully as it had. He didn’t want Cas to start undressing. As far as Dean was concerned, the baggy coat was part of the angel’s body, and there was nothing else to see. Nothing he wanted to see. Or touch. He didn’t want that from Cas and he never had, he liked _girls_ and he’d liked them exclusively ever since John had caught him with that magazine and set him straight and-

\- and fuck, no, there was the image of blood running down the leather of the belt and there was ice in his stomach and Castiel was staring at him with that stupid confused concern-

“It’s not about whether the scars healed, Cas. There shouldn’t have been scars in the first place. I hurt you, and I humiliated you, and I- I-“

“Raped me.” Castiel finished for him. “I know.”

“So be angry!”

“The man I fought yesterday is gone. I have won. There is no point in holding ill will against the dead.”

“He’s not dead, Cas, he’s me. I wasn’t possessed. It was me.”

“Would you do what you did yesterday again?”

“No! Oh, god, Cas, no, never.”

“Then it wasn’t you.”

Dean blinked. Castiel stared.

“As I said, Hannah and I will be leaving in the morning. We have work to do. I suggest you take some time to recover.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

Cas fixed him with that iron stare again and Dean didn’t bother protesting.

“Fine. I’ll let you get some sleep and if I miss you in the morning, good luck with your whatever it is you’re doing.”

He headed for the door, almost clapping Cas on the shoulder, but thinking better of it. He could feel the angel watching him as he stepped into the hall.

“Hey Cas?”

“Yes Dean?”

Dean didn’t turn back.

“You can call me. Sam’s a shitty messenger.”

“Thank you.”

He imagined he could hear a small smile in the angel’s voice.

 

 

 

Sam returned with greasy paper sacks and two bottles of middle-shelf whiskey. They didn’t bother with glasses. They polished off the burgers and were alternating between fries and slugs out of the bottle when Dean broke the silence.

“You had the chance to kill me. Should have taken it.”

He passed Sam the bottle. Sam took it without meeting his eyes.

“It would have been better for Cas. And you. Shit, what I had planned for you, Sammy.” His head fell back and he stared at the ceiling, willing his eyes to stop burning.

Sam sighed.

“You’re my brother and I love you, but I’m gonna tell you this once. That’s not happening. However this ends, with the mark or whatever other evil shit we step in, that’s not happening. Ever.”

He passed the bottle back to Dean.

“Fair enough.”  

Sam went to bed. Dean opened the second bottle.

 

 

Dean dreamt of blue eyes and woke up in the morning with the kind of headache usually attributed to brain tumors. He trudged down to the hall to the bathroom, brushed his teeth until it tasted slightly less like he’d been sucking Satan’s cock, and turned on the shower. He pulled his shirt over his head and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

There was a smear of blood across his hip.

He was violently sick.

Later, he would blame it on the hangover.


End file.
